


Runaway

by btBatt



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frerard, High School AU, M/M, Runaway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/btBatt/pseuds/btBatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard's an 18-year-old runaway and pickpocket, living freely out of his Trans-Am and refusing to believe he's missing out on anything. Everyone else is conforming, they're no better than dead. Frank is a fifteen-year-old freshman attending high school in Belleview, New Jersey.</p>
<p>If the story looks familiar to you then you may have read it on Mibba. No worries, I'm the original author, just expanding my horizons a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cow Brains

The Trans-Am is a good car. No, the Trans-Am is a great car. Gerard would argue that it is the best car to ever race through the desert. Though not even the best car to ever race through the desert can run without gas. And he’s still in New Jersey. New Jersey, when he’s absolutely positive he had gas enough to get to a state that’s not poodle-sized. Lovely. That’s lovely because the best car to ever race through the desert is leaking…. Or maybe this was the “practical application” his Algebra teacher was talking about. Damn, he shouldn't have spent his last ten on spray paint.

Either way, Gerard pulls off I-95 into Belleville, New Jersey, and is seriously low on gas when he parks his Trans-Am across the street from a very classy-looking high school and down the block from a (relatively speaking) moderately-priced gas station. The clock on his dashboard says 1:16 P.M. when he snatches his worn card deck from the glove box and hops out, ignoring his sunglasses. There aren’t any clouds in the sky today, but the sunlight is being filtered through a screen of smog, so it’s hardly sunlight at all.

There’s a wall running around the school grounds, leading him to think that it’s a safe haven of sorts in what’s very obviously an unsafe neighborhood. The cement only reaches his shoulders so he easily jumps up and surveys a decrepit brick structure. So, public school, then. Good. Gerard curls one leg underneath himself and swings the other freely as a smirk spreads over his face. Public schools, while they may occupy different settings or have unique names or employ dissimilar teachers, they’re all the same. Naturally, that goes for student bodies. They’re all the same kid with disparate haircuts and occasional accents. Most importantly, though? Every single one of them is convinced that they’re different. Every single one of them is convinced that they are solely destined to break away, to become famous, to do bigger things. It makes them painfully predictable, sort of like cows. Or zombies. Where the zombie will repeat ‘Brains….brains,’ the high school student’s mantra is ‘Get out….find a way out.’ Honestly though, a two-year-old could predict what would happen when a zombie sees another zombie with a juicy brain clamped in his jaws. Zombie number two will want the brain, or at least part of it. That’s exactly what Gerard is: a zombie with a brain. Well…a teenager with freedom.

A bell sounds suddenly, a monotonous series of dinging that solidifies Gerard’s smirk and breaks his train of thought. Kids start to pour through the doors and he literally chokes on his laughter because _holy shit, public school with uniforms._ Most pay him little attention, too focused on getting to their next class to really even see the boy with bright red hair sitting on their beloved wall. Some though, the more observant cows, see him. Even fewer still meander over in their blazers and ties with curious eyes. A trio of girls with neon nail polish and skirts mere millimeters away from getting them sent home are whispering to each other and creeping forward. From another direction, a couple of boys appear to be arguing, but coming forward nonetheless. A couple of loners join the little half circle around the wall too and look up at him.

Instead of saying anything, Gerard starts to shuffle the cards, bending them so they fly from one hand to the other. And no, he’s not about to pull a rabbit from a hat (even if the poor saps were allowed to wear hats) or even make anybody ‘Pick a card—any card!’ The cards and shuffle patterns just keep his hands busy, and when he’s got his shades on he looks like a pretty badass poker player to boot.

“Hi,” one of the girls says around a flurry of giggles, her two friends snickering behind her. “I’m Katherine….Are you new?”

He laughs like a dog barks. “New to town, if that’s what you meant. I’m Gerard, by the way.” His gaze sweeps over the little crowd he’s attracted and zeros in on something in the long, slender fingers of one of the arguing boys, his wrist glinting with the light catching his platinum wristwatch.

“Hey, kid, where’d you get the coffee?” Gerard asks eagerly. Sure, he’d been planning on getting something caffeinated from the gas station, but that stuff’s always shit.

The boy jumps like he’s surprised anyone noticed his presence and a tuff of shaggy black hair falls over his eyes when he looks down. He’s cute, but looks like he’s twelve. Wait, isn’t this a high school? He was sure….Yeah. Right there, the sign says “Belleville High School.” Maybe he’s some sort of child prodigy or whatever.

“I…” he blushes and Gerard resists the urge to chuckle. “The teachers’ lounge,” he says eventually.

“What are you in town for, Gerard? Are you out of school already?” the lead female bubbles. Yes, bubbles. Like toxic waste bubbles from a vat.

His eyes flicker back to her face, annoyed. Her eyebrows have been waxed and nobody’s—repeat: nobody’s—boobs are that fucking perky. He’s starting to seriously consider hating her.

A disarming smile and an outstretched arm later, Katherine is sitting on the wall next to him despite the disapproving murmur of one of her friends. His hand wraps around her waist, loose and calculated, when he says “I don’t go to school.”

“What do you mean?” says coffee boy’s friend. The brown corkscrew hair on his head bobs a bit in the wind like there’s music only he can hear. “Are you homeschooled or something?”

“Nope.” He detaches from Little Miss Katherine and hops down to stand in front of ‘fro boy. “And your name?”

“Ray.”

“Ray,” he echoes, slapping him good-naturedly on the back. “I don’t go to school at all, Ray. I mean, fuck…why should I? Are you happy here?”

“Well, no…” Ray admits.

“You, Katherine?”

She shakes her head avidly, hope making her eyes sparkle underneath her contacts.

“No? I wasn’t either. So I left, and now I am.” He turns what he knows to be an unfairly amiable smile on the possible child prodigy. “I’m just passing through town, living happily ever after and whatnot. And I’m thinking about killing for that coffee…You can always get another, right?”

Two things happen next that are definitely not according to plan. The first is that the little kid gets pissed. Not annoyed or irritated, but his hazel eyes spark with fury. The second is that a staff member yells something about _what does the young lady think she’s doing on the wall?_ That in itself is not unexpected, people get upset about the stupidest things. No, the unexpected part was when it was her body that bubbled over the vat, spazzing and falling forward. And who knew Katherine was a ballerina? Her foot lands underneath the weight of the rest of her and turns out until it’s facing behind her.

A mini flurry follows in a perfect little storm of activity: most of the students take a shocked step back, her friends are screaming, and Gerard recognizes his exit queue. He reaches forward the last foot to swipe the coffee and is genuinely shocked when the boy’s grip holds firm.

“Aw, c’mon,” Gerard groans.

“Get your own damned coffee,” he growls.

Ray grabs his friend’s arm and tugs insistently. “Frank, just give it to him. Let’s get outta here, man.”

Frank looks absolutely torn between his stubborn stance and his mounting anxiety as a couple more staff members come streaming from the double doors of the fenced-in establishment. Neither relinquishes his hold on the steaming travel cup. Gerard can feel the heat leaving the cup, curling through the hole on top with the steam. He’s getting pissed. Teachers live off coffee, yeah? So he imagines it being like the fucking Chuck Norris of all coffee. That’s not exactly a hypothesis that can be confirmed if it gets cold. He tugs sharply, knowing the sudden movement will force Frank to give up.

So Gerard is very, very surprised when Frank opts to squeeze the cup, sending the lid popping off and throwing the contents in Gerard’s face, in his hair, down the front of his shirt. He’d rather dump it, waste Chuck Norris coffee, than give it up to the weary traveler.

And the kid looks so fucking shocked that it happened, eyes wide and bangs haphazardly draped over his eye from stumbling forward in refusal to let go, that Gerard barks a surprised laugh. But really, the teachers are getting too close for comfort, and Ray gets him to move with a final tug to his sleeve. Gerard backs up and hops up onto the wall, still laughing. Frank looks over his shoulder embarrassedly and Gerard really can’t help waving happily from where he’s squatting on his hamstrings above everyone’s heads, tongue reaching out to lick a drop from his nose as he does so.

Oh, shit. That’s some good coffee.

An official-looking man with a tie—oh, scary—points to the ground and tells him to get down “this instant.” Even calls him a “young man.” Flattery, however, does not impress Gerard. He simply raises his middle finger, stuffs his ruined deck of cards into his pocket, and jumps backwards onto the street.

He knows they won’t come looking for him, not as long as he’s outside their beloved wall. So, while he doesn’t necessarily hightail it out of there, he decides it best to remove himself, his car, and his license plate from the premises. The gas station down the block calls to him, singing siren songs to both his stomach and his fuel tank. Parked outside, he empties his soggy, brown-tinted pockets.

Katherine, the annoying bitch, had quite the wad of money on her. All-in-all, he got sixty-four dollars, someone’s iPod Nano, and a platinum watch that he expects to be worth a good chunk of change. Gerard feels a guilty fondness toward the wristwatch. There was something instinctual about how that Frank kid broke the rules. Even with someone standing next to him telling him it wasn’t worth the trouble, he’d dumped coffee—pretty fucking hot coffee, too—all over Gerard. Without stopping to think if he would get in trouble with the school, or if Gerard was a dangerous person. Hell, he hadn’t even had the courtesy to look embarrassed until he was being whisked away.

Okay, maybe Gerard had been wrong. Maybe not all high school kids were _exactly the same._


	2. Platinum Anger

Gerard can feel circles being carved out under his eyes. It’s almost as if he’s someone’s work of art, and they can’t quite get the carving to work out evenly, so they’re just taking chunks from both sides until it looks symmetrical. Gerard’s done this before. It ruins shit. Before you know it, everything’s completely disproportional and you may as well scrap the project and start over. He keeps this thought very much in his own head, hoping that whoever’s pulling his strings doesn’t decide to scrap him. He doesn’t particularly believe in a God, per se, but he likes the idea of being someone else’s work of art. It makes him feel a little less fucked up. Plus, the visual playing through his mind is like a giant game of Sims.

If Gerard’s a character in someone’s story, then nothing is his fault. Like some weird take on fate. He’s good at slipping into a character role. He practically lives in one. He’s been pretending so long that he pretty much is the character. The only time his mask cracks, the only time his façade falls, are times like this; the rain drumming incessantly on the roof of the Trans- Am, one of his spare jackets wrapped around his feet in a poor attempt to keep them warm, and lying across the back seat so passersby don’t notice his fiery hair through his distorted window. He turns on the heat every once in a while only to turn it off the second he takes in a lungful of rewarmed Jersey air. The money went fast and he’s down to five dollars after filling up his tank, a pack of cigarettes, and some food.

At least Ray’s got good taste in music. Black Flag, the Misfits, and bands that Gerard’s never even heard of. He skips the unfamiliar songs for now, but he swears to himself that he’ll go back later and learn them all.

With a groan, Gerard sits up and lights a cigarette. Instead of cracking a window to let in rain and cold air to ventilate the enclosed space, he sits in the haze and hopes that it’ll warm him up a bit. It almost works. Or, that’s what he keeps telling himself. He’s still too cold to even really think about sleep as a real possibility. Cold sucks, but his insomnia stems from his hyperactive mind. His thoughts are flying at a mile a minute and none of them are very coherent. It’s hard to focus. He thinks of the five dollars left in his pocket. Then he thinks about how stupid it is to stay in one place for more than a day. Then he reasons with himself that one more day won’t hurt, and it’ll even be worth it if he can get an actual cup of Chuck Norris coffee. Gerard hates losing more than almost anything else, and while that Frank kid didn’t _win,_ he poured the contents out. That meant it was a draw. That’s almost as bad as losing… grinding his teeth together, Gerard decides it won’t do any good to mull over his almost-failure. Then he thinks about getting more money from the oblivious kids, because it was way too easy. 

He opens the door long enough to flick the cigarette butt onto the soggy ground before slamming it shut again. Any progress he’d thought he made warming up is demolished in the half second it takes. 

“Shit,” he mutters to himself as he sinks back down into his laying position, a particularly violent tremor tearing its way down his body. The platinum watch will be worth a little less than he originally thought, and he’ll have to wait to get paid for it anyway. He’d taken it around to a few pawnshops and jewelry stores that afternoon, but ultimately hadn’t decided who to sell it to yet or if he wanted to try an online auction, so it was still sitting in his glove box, waiting. He also needed some sort of car charger for this iPod or it would be useless to him. Five dollars wouldn’t be enough, and he shouldn’t spend it that way if he wants to eat tomorrow. Yeah, he’s definitely going back to Belleville High School. Some more hair dye wouldn’t go unappreciated now that he thinks about it. It’s not like anyone thinks this is his real hair color, but _still._ His roots are getting so long it’s simply pathetic. 

Gerard mumbles unintelligibly and buries his nose in the crook of his elbow. He’s _tired_ and he just wants to _sleep_ and he doesn’t even know where he can get alcohol in this godforsaken town to make his thoughts just be _quiet._

*** 

Morning comes slowly and when it finally arrives, Gerard’s been up for a couple of restless hours. By the time the sun streaks across the gap in between buildings, he’s putting the finishing touches on the heavily-penciled skyline in his sketchbook. He sighs around a crooked grin, glad he was able to beat the Sun and finish with the contours of night still hanging over the town. 

He unzips the duffel bag underneath the passenger seat where he keeps his clothes and changes into a new t-shirt and his heavier jacket, still a little bone-cold from his chilly night, and decides that his pants are fine. It’s awkward to change pants in a car. 

Gerard’s one of the first people to populate the school’s courtyard. He can hardly find it in himself to blame the students; if someone were forcing him here every day he’d put it off too. For the sake of blending in—and, more importantly, _winning_ —he wanders the grass instead of sitting on the wall. Even if sitting on the wall makes him look very much like a comic book character. He grinds his teeth contemptuously. It’s a wall. Just as he’s deciding that no one will mind if he sits up there since the school day hasn’t started yet, a voice spins him around. It’s not exactly someone calling his name, but close enough…

“Fucker,” it spits, just low enough to avoid detection. By the time the ‘r’ sound’s ground out, Gerard’s already turned, charming smile in place, to face his assailant. 

“Oh, hey, squirt,” he beams back. 

Frank’s hands are balled into fists and he’s storming his way over. Gerard’s grin slips, turns into more of a smirk; Ray hasn’t arrived yet. He isn’t exactly sure why this makes him feel so mischievous. He thinks that he’s…curious? Yesterday, Ray was the only thing holding Frank back from doing something really, honestly rash. Point being? Frank _surprised_ Gerard. That doesn’t simply happen. Frank, whose role in life has been little more than an extra, has somehow managed to retain a personality. Or perhaps it was a glitch. Maybe some sort of hiccup made him out to be a living creature. It’s incredibly possible and entirely probable that the introduction of an outside element (being himself) incited a spark of life in the stationary object (being Frank)…. Gerard’s also not quite positive where he pulled that information out of. Well, he’s sure it came from somewhere up his ass, he’s just not certain where. 

Gerard’s smile drops considerably upon the insight that Frank hasn’t got any coffee with him. Begrudgingly, Gerard admits that it’s probably for the best. 

The kid stops short of lunging for Gerard’s throat, instead stumbling in his haste to hold himself back and causing his shaggy hair to fall in front of his left eye. His fists are clenched and shit he really gives the impression of wanting to lunge for Gerard’s throat. 

“What’re you….how could you _even..?”_ He straightens, squaring himself to mimic Gerard’s assured posture, he’s sure. It looks ridiculous on his small frame. His fists still shake, shattering any delusion he’d hoped to create of _in control._

“What am I…?” he prompts. Jeez, Franks almost too angry to function without throwing a punch. His pathetically desperate display of self-control is tripping his tongue. 

_“Where’s my watch?”_ is what he decides on. Throws all of his misdirected anger into those words. You know that phrase “if looks could kill,” yeah? Well, if words could gouge your eyes out…

“What watch?” He blinks. “I’m just—“

“And Ray’s iPod?” He glares and Gerard raises an eyebrow to indicate that he’s waiting patiently. Frank, though, seems to be done. Some feeling pangs through Gerard’s chest, ripples to his brain where he deciphers the information: he’s disappointed. Frank didn’t notice the missing money. Sure, most of it had been from what’s-the-bitch’s-face, but…

_Stick to the script, Way._

“Ray’s…iPod?” he asks innocently.

.

“Yeah,” Frank retorts without hesitation. “The one you stole from him.” The shaking picks up again. “I can’t….you robbed us and have the _nerve_ to just come waltzing back?” 

Gerard sighs, feeling deflated. He was wrong; Frank’s nothing special. He just let his imagination run wild. 

“I can assure you I don’t know how to waltz.” He pauses politely as Frank gets the growl out of his throat. “I just wanted some coffee.” 

Some sort of little jolt runs through Frank’s shoulders and a scraping noise comes from the back of his throat. He’s smiling incredulously— _he’s trying not to laugh._ It would appear that the zombie just sat down to cook his dinner. 

“No way in hell,” the kid gasps out. His eyebrows are drawn together and his teeth are showing, but he’s contained the laughter rather well. 

Gerard’s grin widens. And no, it’s not part of the script—the script disintegrated with Frank's near-laugh—the boy just has a contagious smile. “Aw, c’mon, kid—“

“Nope. You got it yesterday, so don’t even try.” 

Gerard’s pouting and about to complain about how yeah, he got it. _In his hair._ But then a hand sprouts from Frank’s shoulder and wiggles back and forth. Gerard’s lip flattens out again and he blinks before realizing that someone behind Frank is waving at them. Wow…he really should get more sleep. 

The lead girl, the one with the noxiously bubbling voice and curled blond hair, saunters up to the pair of boys. Her beaming smile glints like a spoon. Shiny, but completely incapable of causing harm. 

“You’re back!” she chirps. “I was afraid that little incident yesterday would’ve scared you off.” 

“Katie…” Frank tries. 

“It’s Katherine,” she corrects him. _Katherine!_ Right, right, Gerard remembers now. p >

“Since when?” Frank mutters, but says nothing else to stop her. 

Gerard looks pointedly at her foot. He doesn’t think she noticed, but she answers his question anyway. 

“My foot’s fine too. I mean, it hurt like none other, but I iced it last night and it’s just a bit sore, so don’t worry about that.” She grins again. If her grin is spoon-like, then Gerard’s is a knife. How does someone fail to notice sixty-odd dollars missing from their pocket? 

He steps forward and wraps an arm around her waist. “Well, you probably shouldn’t be walking on it if you want it to get better.” He looks down into her brown eyes and drums his fingers on her ribs, causing her body to tense. Perfect. 

Gerard and Frank make eye contact automatically. Frank looks straight at his eyes, deliberately keeping them from Katherine’s purse, where Gerard slips his hand. It’s been a long time since Gerard had this much adrenaline going. His heart is honest-to-God hammering in his chest and his movements are a little too quick to be calm. They hold one another’s gazes as Gerard slips something—a card of sorts and a couple bills—into his jacket sleeve. And then, carefully, he drags his gaze back to Katherine’s misty eyes. 

“You’d better head to class,” he says quietly, like a promise. She nods dumbly. To her credit she doesn’t stumble away. Her gait is downgraded from a ‘saunter’ to something a little more respectable. 

The strangest expression riddles Frank’s face, and Gerard’s simply got no clue. It’s the expression someone would wear to study a wonderful portrait—if that portrait were painted in blood. A sort of awed admiration slathered in open disgust. Gerard, however, still has an easy smile on his face despite the fact that he doesn’t know what to do. Frank’s eyes move down his body and then back up and the bell really is ringing now so Gerard winks. 

“And I’ll see _you_ later, hot pants.” 

Frank smirks, fork-like, each prong lilting in a slightly different direction from the others. Frank smiles kind of like he’s flipping him off. “Later,” he agrees and turns away to jog through the double doors of the high school. 

Wandering away, Gerard lights a cigarette and hops over the wall. Yeah, Frank might just be some sort of human. With, like, free will and learning capabilities or something. Fuck, Gerard needs to start being more careful. The second he’s behind the wall he sticks the earbuds in and fast forwards twice. Iron Maiden. _Thanks, Ray._ Holding the cigarette between his lips and sucking in, he slides a small wad of money from his sleeve. Two twenties and a five in addition to the card. He hopes it’s debit, because a credit card requires a PIN number. And that, naturally, requires spending more time with Katherine. Not as good as yesterday’s yield, but not bad either. First thing’s first, Jersey’s fucking cold. He needs some pocket warmers and new socks. Food and hair dye too.

On his way to the store he manages to get ahold of two more wallets. He swiftly takes the hard cash and dumps the rest in a puddle. About a hundred more dollars. 

Even though he swears everyone to be the same, Gerard is quickly becoming convinced that people in New Jersey are stupider than the national average.

Today is going to be _fun._


End file.
